


Sidekicks

by Crollalanza



Series: Chikara/Keiji series [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-28 12:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11418105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: Akaashi Keiji spends his days working through the slush pile to find the next YAL bestseller. At night he comes home to his film enthusiast boyfriend, who's just landed his first directing job.  And except for a broken tap that Chikara has promised to fix, life is good, Keiji knows it is ... really.But there's this feeling dripping at him that at twenty-five he should be achieving more.Cue an attempt to mend the offending tap, plus a surprise visit from an old college friend of Chikara's and life is about to take a different turn.





	1. Drip/Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Gratuitous references to The Raven Cycle, writing, rubbish movies and plumbing.

Keiji stared at the water, watched as it formed into a silver blur of a teardrop, perfect in every respect, clinging on to its ceiling with a force weakening as every second passed. It bulged at the bottom, its weight increasing as if the sand from an hourglass was trickling downwards. Still it grasped, the wobble steadying, and then just when it could have hoped for safety, the droplet fell, smashing onto the stainless steel floor, splattering to nothing.

“Don’t you dare,” Keiji muttered.

But threats did nothing. The tap mocked him anew, gathering strength to begin the cycle again.

_Drip_

It was stupid to let it get to him, but coming after the other niggle (over a broken cup) and then Chikara’s enthusiastic gloating when he’d got more questions correct in the quiz they liked to watch together, the dripping tap that he’d promised to fix now sounded like water torture to Keiji’s throbbing head.

_Drop_

He’d not eaten well, either, grabbing a quick snack at work, coming home to find Chikara had been delayed so hadn’t prepared anything for dinner. So the headache thrumming at his brain was probably more a case of lack of food and dehydration rather than any external forces.

_Drip_

It didn’t stop him blaming the fricking tap, though. Or Chikara, who had promised to fix it.

_Drop_

“If you don’t know how to, then I’ll call a plumber!” Keiji yelled. “Better still, I’ll ask Komi. He’s got tools. He’ll be perfectly happy to.”

“He’s away,” Chikara replied – infuriatingly calm. “And there’s no point calling in a plumber when I can do this myself.”

“You said that last week.”

“Washer,” Chikara continued regardless. “It needs a new one and I’ve not had a chance to get to the hardware store yet.” He looked up from the sheaf of papers he was flicking through. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was that big a deal.”

And it wasn’t really. The leaky tap was in the kitchen, which neither of them used unless they were cooking, preferring to eat in their tiny lounge. The dripping was slow and probably no one would notice, but the fact of it nagged at Keiji. It was like a loose tooth, one that you knew would hurt when you poked your tongue at it but you did it all the same.

“Tell me what bloody washer it needs and I’ll go and get it. Or order it online!”

Chikara put down his papers (it was probably a script) and inched across the sofa. Their thighs touched, but Keiji was still feeling too irritated to respond.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Think I’ll go to bed.”

“Want me to join you?”

Keiji got to his feet. He let his hand ruffle Chikara’s hair, and then he sighed. “Only if you’re going to stay in bed and not have to get up an hour later to get on with your work.”

“Sorry, I would, but I really need to sort this out,” he replied, and picked up the script. “It’s complete shit with the worst and most dated dialogue but I can’t –”

“Fire the scriptwriter, yes I know,” Keiji said, and gave a brief flickering smile. “I thought you’d asked for a few amendments.”

“His rewrite was even worse,” Chikara said morosely, knitting his brows together, his mind already back to the film and not on the dripping tap at all.  “He’s actually written a line for the heroine which is ‘You’re a bastard, I love you!’ and then the guy shoves her against the wall – according to the directions – and snogs her. I mean ... how 1980’s can this get?” Turning his head, Chikara nuzzled Keiji’s palm. “I’m sorry. I’ll sort out the tap tomorrow.”

Aware he was being petty Keiji left him to it. He knew the stress Chikara was under having landed his first director role. And he’d been so excited, they both had, until the reality had set it, and he’d discovered the reason he’d been hired was because the producer had figured he’d be cheap, and would be so grateful he wouldn’t complain.

Chikara came to bed at around one in the morning. Keiji knew that because although he’d been very careful to keep the noise down, there was a certain way he walked, steady, hesitant steps that Keiji was attuned to. A slither as his trousers dropped to the ground, and the creak of the wardrobe as Chikara hung them up. 

Sometimes he wished Chikara would just throw his clothes on the floor, but then tidiness had been one of their early issues, with Keiji hating floordrobes or chairdrobes, so Chikara had acquiesced and now it had become habit.

He crept into bed, slowly lowering himself down, landing with a soft flump and his head gracing the pillow. Keiji felt the mattress dip a little between them, and he stiffened so he wouldn’t fall into the middle. Chikara was still, too still, not at all the stillness of someone who’d immediately dropped off to sleep, but rather someone desperate not to wake the person he shared a bed with.

“Did you finish?” Keiji asked, and stretched his hand out behind him, touching Chikara’s stomach.

 “Sorry, did I wake you?” Chikara murmured. “I tried to be quiet.”

“I know.” He took a breath. “I was awake anyway.”

Chikara shuffled over then slung his arm round Keiji’s waist.  He was cold and Keiji involuntarily shivered, but he snuggled back, curling up his legs so his bum fitted in Chikara’s lap, hoping he didn’t take the trembling as a sign of rejection.

“You’re having a lot of sleepless nights. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, not adding that he was surprised he’d noticed as Chikara usually crashed out as soon as he lay down.

“It is if I’m keeping you awake.” Chikara’s breath ticked the back of his neck. “Am I?”

There was worry etched in his voice, combined with a soothing tone, imploring Keiji to speak to him.

It’s too late. Or too early. I have to get up at seven, and god knows when Chikara needs to leave.

“Are you on location tomorrow?”

If he was surprised at the change of subject, Chikara didn’t voice it, but his arm twitched a little. “Yep, but I don’t have to capture any sunrises, so not too early.”

“It’s not that clichéd a movie, then?”

He snorted, the vibrations sending a thrill down Keiji’s spine. “Don’t give them ideas. I’m filming sunsets next week for the reunion scene.”

“On a beach?”

He felt Chikara’s face move up and down as he nodded, and then he was still and the only movement Keiji was aware of was the rise and fall of both their chests now in rhythm.

“So -” Chikara began. His hands were still; his mouth close to Keiji’s ear, and their bodies together had begun to generate the heat of contact – solid and warming.  

But not seductive. And right now, Keiji didn’t want to talk, he wanted something else to stop the incessant drip of his thoughts as they hammered at his skull.

The gap in the curtains where they didn’t quite meet leaked in light from the street below, and outside the faint sounds of traffic floated up to their seventh floor apartment. The normal sounds from a normal night. Nothing special.

“So,” interrupted Keiji, and turned around staring straight into Chikara’s for once unsleepy eyes. His hand slipped to Chikara’s hipbone, pressing down with his thumb.

Chikara tried, he really did. His eyes were full of concern and he leant away a little determined to focus on the problem. It was just a shame for his worthy intentions that Keiji knew his weak spots, and that by leaning away he’d exposed his neck.

“What do you want to say?” Keiji murmured, his lips gracing Chikara’s neck, then sliding his tongue up to his earlobe.

“Uh ... we should ... Oh.”

His mouth twitching, Keiji slipped his fingers between Chikara’s thighs, eternally grateful that despite the hellishly cold temperature outside, his boyfriend hated pyjamas preferring loose shorts and baggy tees in bed.

“Should what?” he asked as Chikara’s thighs parted.

“Talk?” Chikara suggested, but it was feeble, the last flapping flailing attempts of a drowning man as the wave of Akaashi Keiji enveloped him.

 

He was awake before he needed to be. The morning was still dark, but quiet and Keiji watched as it filtered from dark to light grey before finally letting colour seep in to the day. Beside him, Chikara was stirring, his hand clutching a pillow as he lay on his front.  It was rare for Keiji to be awake before Chikara, so he took the opportunity to prop himself up on his elbow and observe.

Chikara looked younger in repose. His twenty-five years slipped easily into the boy of sixteen he’d been when they’d first met, the slight chubbiness of his face where the pillow squashed it emphasising the illusion. Awake and he’d automatically mature. His attitude as a teenager had always been that of an adult, responsible and forward thinking. His idea of living for the day was to have it all planned out, and with a list of scenes, he had to shoot. It was one of the things they’d had in common all those years ago. Clear thinking on and off court. Goals to hand.

 

 “You’re awake.”

“Yup.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“How cute you are when you drool,” Keiji answered, flipping him on the nose. “Tea or coffee?”

“Um ...” He yawned and considered.“It’s a _coffee_ day. I have to speak to the scriptwriter and corner him with the producer at the same time.”

“Ah, double headed attack!” _No, that wasn’t quite right._ “Two birds with one stone.”

“I don’t want any misunderstandings.” He shuffled up the bed until he was sitting, then gave a smile. “I’m boring. What’s your plan for the day?”

“Searching through the slush pile for the next big thing.”

“More YAL heroes?”

“Yup, they’re all unconventionally handsome. Rugged but with a sensitive side. I expect three poetry writers today,” he joked. “Yesterday the hero was a birdwatcher, too. And the heroine was a photographer because –” he clicked his tongue at the same time as making a gun gesture with his fingers, “- you guessed it, she feels uncomfortable on the other side of the camera.”

“Does she possess a ‘different kind of beauty’?”

“Curious eyes that in a certain light are violet.”

“Fantastic,” Chikara cheered, flashing him a grin. “She can star in this dumbass movie.”

Feeling lighter, Keiji hopped out of bed, wrapped a dressing gown around him and trundled across to the kitchen.

The tap dripped at him.

_Ignore it._

“Do you want proper coffee,” he called, “or will instant do?”

“Ugh! Make that nothing,” Chikara replied, rushing in, phone in his hand. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Bloody prima donna actor’s having a hissy fit, and clearly I have to sort it out.”

“Can’t your assistant deal with it?” he asked as Chikara after a quick peck dashed out again and headed to the bathroom.

“Nice try. This is so low budget, I _am_ the assistant,” he replied.

The boiler fired up and the noise of the shower, cranky and old, drowned out any further conversation

He’d grabbed an apple and a carton of juice from the fridge, then left not even able to promise what time he’d been home. Keiji decided on tea, dropping a tea bag into a cup and standing as he waited for the kettle to boil. The small window over the sink began to steam up until soon the outside was a blur and nothing could be seen of the horizon.

_Drip_

“And you can shut the fuck up!”

***

When he’d landed a job at one of Tokyo’s small but prestigious publishing houses straight out of college, Keiji had felt on top of the world. It had been the first step, he’d thought, of his grand plan. For as much as he’d loved volleyball at school, and for a while at university, he’d never looked on it as a career. It had been an essential part of him, something that provided the necessary distraction of physicality, and added to his mental agility. He’ d learnt patience and perseverance at Fukurodani, all qualities he’d been assured he’d need for the future.

“Get used to rejection, then,” the guidance counsellor had said, when Keiji had refused to specialise in the sciences, and explained his ideas for the future.  

He was now an Editorial Assistant, a junior one at that. Working his way up from Office Assistant, he’d managed to secure a position for one of the Commissioning Editors, namely because his boss had liked volleyball, so had been impressed with his listed hobbies and achievements.  Not that the job had anything to do with volleyball, or even sport, but it had given him a way in, something that had ensured he stood out from the other applicants.

He remembered the high of two years ago when he’d shifted departments and the delight he’d been unable to hide the following weekend at the team reunion dinner.

(“So tell us what the new job entails,” Konoha said.

“Yeah, like are you writin’ stuff, now?” Bokuto asked, eyes wide, clearly impressed.

“Uh, no. I’m reading a lot, though.” He gave them a small smile, one that most people would miss, but as a team, they smiled back. “You know how much I’ll like that. It’s working through manuscripts, seeing if anything interests me.” He coughed. “If I like something, then I hand it over to the Senior Assistant, who if she likes it will hand it on to the Commissioning Editor. He’s the one who’ll make the decision.”

Komi refilled their glasses with sake. “C’mon guys, this is something worth drinking to. Our kouhai’s moving on.”)

 

Arriving at work, he unwound the scarf from his neck and immediately shivered.  It was cold. He felt colder in the atrium than he had outside trudging through the softly falling snow. And now he looked at it, the receptionists were bundled up in jumpers, not their usual blouses with large bows round the neck.

When one of them waved at him, he stopped by their desk. “Has something happened? It’s very quiet here.”

“The pipes have frozen and the generator’s broken down,” she answered, her teeth chattering. “They said to tell employees that you should take work home with you.” He could see her breath and she shivered again. “Lucky you.”

After grabbing ten from the top of the slush pile, shoving in his backpack and then picking up a completed work he was proof reading, he hurried down the stairs (as the elevator wasn’t working) and back to the atrium now staffed by only one of the receptionists.

“Can I fetch you coffee before I leave?” he asked, being careful not to look too cheery. “The cafe over the road is open.”

“Ah, sweet of you, Akaashi-san,” she said, and smiled. “We’re not allowed to drink it out here, though. Doesn’t give the right image, although blue-with-cold fingers do.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” He walked away, tightened his scarf, pulling his gloves back on and pushed through the revolving door to the outside.

His phone started to buzz as he stepped into the station.

“Chikara?”

“Yeah.” He sounded tinny and faraway.

“Are you on location?”

“Yup, just taking five.  How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Sorry about this morning.”

“I am a grown-up, Chikara. I am able to make and eat breakfast by myself.”

“Yeah, nice to talk over coffee though.” There was a pause and a station announcement rent the air. “Are you not in work yet?”

“Heating’s broken down, so I’m taking work home with me.”

“Ah.” 

Someone was yelling for Chikara – presumably, he’d already ‘taken five’ -    but he showed no sign of hanging up, groaning into the phone. “Look, very quickly, an old friend of mine wants to stay -”

“The train at platform seven –” blared the announcer.

 _Fuck, my train!_ “Chikara, I have to run.”

“Next week,” he heard Chikara say.

“That’s fine. Gotta go.”

“Brilliant! Bye!”

Keiji sprinted for the train, jumping into a carriage and landing a seat just before the doors closed.

 _Friend_... presumably not one from Karasuno or he’d have said. Old friend meant not someone from work. Leaning back against the seat, feeing a blast of hot air around his ankles, Keiji allowed himself a moment to reflect, to see if he could remember anyone Chikara had mentioned before. Probably a college friend.  

He yawned. Chikara could fill him in tonight.

Back at the apartment, he dumped his rucksack on the table. It was cold, so he switched the heating back on, and decided to make himself coffee before getting started.

_Drip_

“Don’t,” he muttered, and scowled menacingly. He filled the kettle, turning the tap off extra tight, making sure there was absolutely no way that any water was going to escape. He twisted it so hard his wrist twinged, and the grip of his fingers began to burn. And then he blew on his hand, and turned the tap one more time, just in case, just to be sure, for luck...

_Drop_

“Well, that’s just fucking rude,” he snarled.

But he wasn’t wasting any more time. Making his coffee, he stalked into their lounge, settled himself on the sofa and pulled out the first of the manuscripts. 

He managed the first page before flicking through to see how long it was. The third epithet on the second page describing the hero as a ‘long-legged man’ when his legs had already been described as ‘lean and long’ in the fourth paragraph had him curling his fingers around the pages.

_Unless this guy’s legs are the focal point of the novel, like his super-power, this is not cutting it._

But he ploughed on, not wanting to give up just yet, even if he could hear his superior muttering ‘Bin it’.  When he’d first started reading manuscripts, he’d been hopeful, prepared to give everyone a chance and had written out long letters explaining what needed to be done. He’d read them several times over, determined to give every author a chance. But it had eaten into not only his time but his mental fortitude. Would be authors had latched onto him, plaguing him for updates on their opus, ringing the office constantly. One or two had even managed to get hold of his mobile number and had taken to calling out of hours begging for a chance.

Now he prided himself on finishing the sample, even if he had made a decision after the first five pages. And the letters he sent out were standard rejection letters, with only the occasional one side of critique if he saw clear potential.

The sad thing was that he did more than the other assistants; the other sad thing was that he no longer felt he _had_ to help their budding authors. Buried under the endless ream of pages, he was suffocating under the mass fallacy that writing was easy and everyone had a book in them.

“Okay, Long-Leggy-san, I’m done.”  He dumped it on the floor and reached for his book to make a note of the name for the reject letter, and then grabbed another wannabe bestseller.

The second joined the first on the floor, followed by the third. The fourth, however, had potential with a female character that intrigued Keiji.  He set it on the small table next to the sofa, drained his coffee cup and then walked back out to the kitchen.

_Drip_

“Oh, fuck.” He gripped the edge of the sink.

_Drop_

There was something nagging at him, not just the tap, so scooting back to the lounge, he picked up the manuscript and began rereading.

_Dammit!_

No wonder the character had intrigued him. Nicknamed ‘Red’ she was a feisty red-haired waitress, living with an assortment of witches. Still at school, she’d been serving a group of boys, one of whom had badly chatted her up, another had been scowlingly broody, a third had been shyly handsome and the fourth mysterious and quiet.

“Do you _seriously_ believe I wouldn’t have read the original?” he yelled. “In English and Japanese, I even read the Italian translation. What the fuck is wrong with you, thinking you can plagiarise and no one will know?” In fury, he scanned back to the covering letter, then threw it on the floor. “Yeah, I bet you have a sequel already planned. Probably four of them, right, about a quest to wake a king, or have you decided to make it a Samurai warrior!”

_Drip_

“Bollocks to this!  Bollocks to shitty manuscripts and people who think because they dashed off fifty k in a month, that they’re the next best fucking thing since JKR.”

He’d thought the yelling would make it better, would cathartically release him from the tension he’d been holding in for weeks, but as he took a breath and silence rained down, only one sound could be heard.

_Drop_

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING PISSY TAP!”

_Drip_

“RIGHT!”

Losing any semblance of calm, (his former opponents would not have recognised him at all) Keiji wrenched open the cupboard under the sink and hauled out a large metal bucket. It contained tools. Chikara’s tools. Not in a toolbox because they were an assortment of things he’d cobbled together for the apartment.

“Right!” Keiji seethed again, and reached for a heavy-duty spanner.

There was no plan. Chikara had said something about a washer, which was a relatively simple job, and Keiji could do simple. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d unscrew the tap, pull out the old washer, then run to the hardware shop to buy a replacement.

Easy.

And at least I’ll have achieved something for the fucking day!

With renewed purpose, he set about the tap. Using a force he felt he’d channelled from Bokuto slamming down a spike, he twisted and turned, and finally wrenched at the wretched tap. He felt it give and then with a cry, it loosened and the plain black washer popped out falling into his hand.

“Ah -”

Followed by a sudden gush of cold water squirting up into his face.

“WHAT!”

He slammed his hands on the tap opening, desperate to keep in the water, to somehow force it back into the tap, but the restriction caused the flow to tighten, spurting up and drenching not just his face but his shirt and jumper.

“No, NO NOOOOO – why is this happening?”

He staggered back, the water continued to pour, but at least it was  a steady flow streaming down the plughole and not a torrent pounding against him.

_Okay, if I reassemble the tap, chuck this washer back in, then it’ll just be leaky again and no one will ever know._

But as he processed that thought, he opened up his hand to find the rubber washer hadn’t taken kindly to its extraction and had split in two.

“Fuck.”

He vaulted back out to the lounge, grabbed his phone and began the search for a plumber. This was too big now. Clearly, he’d made some horrible error, one that Chikara would not only never make, but would bring up with a giggle at every possible opportunity. But if he found a plumber, then Chikara need never know ...

Ignoring the unlikelihood of getting away with this, he punched in a number.

“Sorry, he’s busy on another job. Call back tomorrow.”

He moved onto another.

“Ishigawa-san is currently away.”

And another.

“Takehito retired last year.”

 _Does no one want a job?_ He found a different name, one living in the north of the city.

“Can’t give a firm time but should be with you by the end of the day.”

“But I need you now. You don’t understand, my kitchen is flooding.”

“I’ll try and get to you next then, sunshine, but see if you can turn the water off first.”

“What?”

The plumber sighed, then speaking very slowly as if to a small child, he explained about a shut off valve, one that needed to be closed before attempting any type of repair. “There’s a small tap under yer sink, twist that and then find the valve. If it’s stiff use a pair of pliers to shut the valve off, and the water will stop.” He sniffed. “I’ll get to you when I can, but I can’t give a –”

“Firm time, yes, I know.  Thank you, very much. I’ll try this and then wait for you.”

He found the tap and turned it to off. He found the valve, which was, as the plumber had said, stiff, so sorted through the tool bucket, mentally cursing Chikara for not having them in an organised belt like Komi, and pulled out pliers.

“Easy does it.” He held his breath, listened as the water continued to burble down the sink, and twisted the valve to the off position.

Or tried to. Stiff was an understatement. The lever was stuck and no amount of jerking or tugging was going to shift it up and stop the flow.

“Why. Can’t. One. Fucking. Thing. Go. Right. Today?” he fumed as he jerked up with the pliers, trying to shift the lever.

The water had slowed, it was true, but it was now unsteady and not a flow at all, more a series of splutters and starts, a tiny geyser sending out jets of water that didn’t even have the courtesy to dribble down the sink.

Staggering back on his haunches, he slumped against the cupboard facing the sink, lifted his head to stare at the ceiling and tried to clear the rage in his head.

It was odd how in a game he’d been able to see so clearly, plan every move, but here, now, with nothing else around except the recalcitrant tap, he was out of plans and moves.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he was aware of the tap still fitting and starting, just as he was aware that the cover letter he’d thrown to the floor was now sodden pulp.

“I should clean up. Or at least try,” he said wearily. He’d find a bowl, or several, dot them round the kitchen to catch as much water as possible, then mop up the rest. By the time the plumber arrived, he might just have stopped the whole apartment block from flooding.

With a semblance of a plan, he got to his feet, but just as he’d laid out a series of bowls on the floor, he heard the most blessed sound ever.

_Ding-dong!_

“Bless you, Plumber-san. I swear I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life, or longer if Chikara doesn’t kill me when he gets back.”

He flung open the door unable to compose his usual blank expression so pleased was he to see his saviour. “Come in, come in! Just in time!”

“Uh ... yeah ... right,” the plumber replied. He stayed on the doorstep, shuffling his feet a bit, a holdall slung over his shoulder and a plastic bag in the other. “My lunch,” he explained. Then he blinked. “What the heck happened to you?”

“I couldn’t shift the valve,” Keiji replied, frowning a little because hadn’t he explained the problem to the guy only forty minutes before. “Anyway, thank God you were able to make it. Now come in and whatever your rate is, I’ll double it if you’re finished quickly and before my ... um ... flatmate gets back.”

The plumber stared at him, eyes intense. “My rate?”

“Yes, I know we didn’t discuss it on the phone, as all you said was that you couldn’t give a firm time, but –”

“I’m perfectly capable of giving a firm time,” he snapped. “Not sure I should be ...” Trailing off, the plumber’s lips twitched as he appeared to take in Keiji’s appearance.  “You’re dripping.”

“Yes, that’s why I called you. Tap and all that.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“So if you wouldn’t mind...” Keiji said and moved to the side, gesturing with a sweep of his hand to the kitchen. 

The plumber stepped over the threshold, kicked off his trainers (not untying them, Keiji noticed) and put down both his bags. He swept the hair off his face, then peered at Keiji.

“What do you need me to do?”

_Fix the fucking tap, are you dense?_

“Oh, I don’t know, surprise me,” he said, as sarcastic as he dared and adding one of his wide grins (those who knew him feared the wide grins knowing he was set to explode if the corners of his mouth reached his eyes).

“Whoa, this is a mess,” the plumber said, standing at the kitchen door. “I’m really not sure if I can fix this today. Might take a while.”

“It’s a washer!  That’s all. My boyf ... uh ... flatmate says that’s the problem, only I took the washer out and now it’s disintegrated and I can’t get turn the water off, so if you could just do that for a start then –” He stopped for breath, inhaled deeply, and caught the plumber’s last words.

“Cock.”

“What?”

“Stop cock,” he repeated. There was something in his voice, a tone Keiji couldn’t fail to miss, that of supreme amusement. And he _still_ hadn’t moved anywhere close to the sink and the water was _still_ spurting out and up and soaking every surface in the vicinity.

“What about it?”

“Where is it? If you can’t isolate the water supply under your sink, then you need to turn it off at the mains.”

“In the street? How the heck would I even find it? Look, I know this looks shitty, but I can’t deprive everyone of water just for a broken tap. It’s-”

“Nope, it’ll either be in here somewhere, or your bathroom, or else you’ve a shared one on this floor for a few of the apartments.” He still didn’t move, folding his arms across his chest. “Maybe warn your neighbours before you turn it off.”

“Me? You’re the plumber!”

He grinned again. Actually, it was more of a smirk. And when he flicked his hair off his face, Keiji felt a jolt of recognition pass through him.

“You’re not the plumber.”

“Correct.”

He’d seen photos from Chikara’s school then college days, this guy laughing at the camera.

“You’re Chikara’s friend.”

“Yup.”

“Who is supposed to be arriving next week?”

“Ahh, message didn’t get through, then? Change of plan.”

“He was telling me,” Keiji attempted to explain, “but I was running for a train and ... um ... misunderstood. Look, please come in, or ... uh ... as you’re in, please go into the lounge and I’ll ... uh ...”

“Well, you can’t make me a cup of tea, so how about I sort out your plumbing, and then we clear up.” He chuckled a little. “Don’t worry, I’m not bad at this shit and we’ll get it tidy before Mr Responsible gets home.”

And in spite of his dripping hair, drenched clothes and horribly squelchy socks, Keiji began to snort with laughter. “I’m Akaashi Keiji, by the way, although I figure you know that. I’m so sorry for the horrible welcome, but I’m guessing you have to be Futakuchi.”

“My reputation precedes me, I can tell,” Futakuchi laughed. “What did he say about me?”

“Oh, it was all good,” Keiji lied.

“Ha!  Wind up merchant and lazy assed sass monster,” Futakuchi replied. “We shared a house for a while. Chikara was the one who fixed things, while I broke them.” He paused, chewed on his lip, then walked further into the kitchen. “I’m better now, learnt a few tricks off him, so show me this valve and I’ll see if I can sort it out.”

 

Forty minutes later, after a new washer had been fitted (Futakuchi found one in the bottom of the tool bucket) and the kitchen had been thoroughly mopped, they were sat in the lounge sipping huge mugs of coffee. Outside the snow had started to fall in faster flurries, but inside the pair of them swapped stories of school, and recollections of Chikara as they grasped for connections.

“You play, right?” Then Keiji winced because there was something coming back to him, something Chikara had mentioned recently, frowning over a text.

“Ish.” Futakuchi waggled his hand, not looking too distraught. “Shoulder injury, so I’ve missed a lot of the season. I’m in Tokyo to consult a specialist.”

“An operation?”

“Possibly. He might decide it’s not worth it, so then I’ll be packing it in,” he replied.

“Tough break,” Keiji murmured. He leant forwards. “I have a friend who was injured, and he made an amazing comeback.”

Futakuchi laughed and flashed him a wink. “We’re not all in Bokuto-sama’s league. Would have been a crime against volleyball to see him injured out.” He shrugged. “I could retire, it’s no big deal.”

“And do what?”

“Who knows? World is my lobster and all that jazz.” His eyes widened. “Quite exciting, really.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Not really. Might take up sports coaching. Or maybe take a couple of years off and travel the world, eat a lot of different food and basically indulge myself.” He paused to blow across his coffee before taking a sip. “And you?”

“I’m in publishing.”

“Mmm, Chikara mentioned that. Said you wrote a bit too.”

“He said that.”

Nodding, Futakuchi took another sip. “During college years, you understand. I know you guys weren’t together then, but he talked about you on and off. Said you had great ... uh ... focus.”

“Ha! It’s easy when your senseis are hammering home the point that your future’s at stake!”

“I guess.” He shrugged and was silent for a while, alternating between blowing and sipping. “My focus was all on volleyball, mind you, so it didn’t leave much room for anything else. Chikara had bigger aims.”

“Don’t I know it,” Keiji said, hoping he sounded fond, because he was fond and Chikara’s clear-sightedness was one of the things he loved about him. “We were sixteen when we first met, and he told me then he wanted to be a director, not just that but he wanted to be the main director by the time he was twenty five.”

“Which he’s achieved,” Futakuchi added and stretched out his legs. “What sort of film is it?”

“Oh, it’s cool. He’s doing well with it.”

“Ha, you’re loyal. He said it sucked dogs’ balls and he wanted to scratch his name off the credits with his own fingernails.”

Keiji laughed.”Yeah, it’s shit. Clichéd as fuck, but well, if anyone can turn it around, it’s Chikara.”

“How do we know such a genius?” Futakuchi asked, and clasped his hand to his head as if to swoon.

“You think he’ll drop us when he’s set up in Hollywood?” Keiji joked.

There was a beat, and then Futakuchi, his eyes narrowing, said lightly, “I’m planning my memoirs, he’ll have to pay me a fortune to keep it quiet. Ennoshita – The College Years. Racy stuff as he yelled at us to shut the fuck up every night.” He licked his lips. “How about you? What would you tell?”

“Nothing I’d let you use, Futakuchi-san,” he replied. “Fights to the death over the proper use for coat hangers and dripping taps, but apart from that it’s all ... uh ... well, I’d guess you’d say it’s boring.”

“Nah.” He stretched out his legs, and Keiji could see he was itching to prop them up on the table, but was still unsure of the company. “Compatibility’s cool. You’re cool. The pair of you.”

“You barely know ‘us’. You don’t know me at all, Futakuchi-san.”

“I know the fact of you,” Futakuchi replied. He set his coffee cup down on a coaster, then sat up straighter, facing Keiji head on. “Chikara talked about ‘Akaashi-kun’ with no bitterness at all. First relationship goals, I used to think. It had finished, but he didn’t mope. Some of us tried to continue school relationships and ended up getting burnt, but he was, and it looks as if you were, okay.”

“He was. I am. We are.” He smiled. “I’ll have to invent something for the kiss and tell.”

His eyes crinkled.  “Ha, he’s not going to dump you, so save it for your novel.”

Raising his eyebrows, Akaashi thought about questioning him over the last remark, but Futakuchi had got up and was walking across to the opposite wall, admiring the framed photograph on the wall.

“Whoa, you played with Onaga, too!”

“Mmm.” Akaashi joined him, staring at the picture, resisting the temptation to touch the faces, or maybe he wanted to turn the picture around so the eyes weren’t staring at him anymore. “You know Onaga, then?”

“He might be joining us,” Futakuchi replied, and leant forward to scrutinise the photograph closer. “He’s pretty.”

“Onaga?”  Keiji tried not to betray surprise. Onaga was a great guy, solid, dependable, but pretty was not a word Keiji thought anyone would ascribe to him. _No accounting for taste._

“The blond guy. Foxy in more than one way.”

“Ah, Konoha-san. Yes, popular on and off court. I could introduce you, but he has a sharp tongue, and you might not survive the –”

Futakuchi smirked. “Chikara’s really not told you a lot about me, has he? What does Fox-san do?”

“Environmental stuff. Works for some government department.”

“Didn’t continue, then. With volleyball, I mean.”

Keiji gave a slow shake of his head. “You have to really want it, don’t you?”

Shrugging, Futakuchi turned away. “Yeah, probably.” Then he twisted back, one side of his mouth curved upwards. “As I’m not in training, d’you fancy getting started on the thank you present I bought for you and Mr Responsible?”

“Which is?”

Still smirking, Futakuchi left the lounge, returning seconds later with a large bottle and a round tin. “Brandy and cookies. Want to add some to your coffee?”

He had work. A handful more scripts to look through, and a novel to proof-read, the sensible option, the _professional_ option, the Akaashi Keiji usual course of action would be to crack on with his work, and treat himself to a break later, much later, and certainly not at midday.

“I have work to do,” he muttered. “I really should ...”

“Ah, okay. Don’t mind me, then. I’ll watch a bit of TV and let you get on with it,” Futakuchi replied. He set the bottle on the table, then sat back on the sofa, the tin in his lap as he picked at the seal with his nail. “You can eat cookies, surely?”

“I can as long as I don’t get too many chocolate smears on the pages. Mind you, most of these won’t make it to the second stage, anyway, so I might as well use them as plates.”

“Huh?”

“I’m reading submissions. I’d just made it through the first four when I decided to branch out into plumbing.”

“Sounds interesting,” Futakuchi selected a biscuit, one wrapped in gold and peeled away at the foil.  “You like it?”

He shrugged, accepted a shortbread and nibbled at one corner. “When I find the occasional jewel in the dust ...” He clicked his tongue, a sudden irritation nipping at him. “Ah, go on then, put some of that brandy in my coffee.”


	2. Chaperone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keiji and Kenji bond over alcohol and Chikara 
> 
> Well, sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Ennoshita and Futakuchi are both Star Wars fans.

When Chikara called out a ‘hellooo’ and slammed the front door, Keiji and Futakuchi were seriously stuck into the brandy. Deciding work was a no-brainer for the day, Keiji was instead watching old volleyball games from school with their guest and laughing whenever Bokuto appeared.

“How the fuck did you put up with that?” Futakuchi cried, wiping tears from his eyes now able to pinpoint the exact second Bokuto Dejection Mode would strike.

“No idea,” Keiji replied, and hiccupped softly. “But I guess we thought it was worthwhile.” The screen was blurring in front of him, and he knew he should put his glasses on, but instead he closed one eye, trying to focus. “This is good though. He snaps out of it, just after Onaga –”

“NO SPOILERS!” Futakuchi yelled. “OH YES!  GO OWLS!”

“Hey.”

Keiji looked up, cocked Chikara a grin and stretched out his hand. “Hello, are you early or have all the clocks stopped?”

“Early. Light wasn’t right, the lead’s moaning about a cold and how his nose is red and the meeting was ... uh ... unproductive.”

“Come and join us,” Futakuchi demanded, and shifted to the floor. “There’s brandy.”

“Mmm, I can see. Nice to see you, Kenji. Good to see you, too, Chikara, and thanks for letting me crash at your pad.”

Futakuchi snorted, then exhaled blowing a lock of his hair off his forehead. “This is research,” he said, flapping his hand in the air. “Onaga might be joining my team.  OH GREAT SPIKE! LOOK AT THAT GUY!”

“That’s Konoha,” Chikara said. He hadn’t sat down, but his hand was resting along the top of the sofa.

“That’s who he’s really researching,” Keiji whispered and smothered a giggle. “Futakuchi has a crush on my old senpai.”

“God help Japan if they ever meet,” Chikara said lightly.

He  tried to move away, but Keiji grasped his wrist tugging him down. “Join us?”

“I will,” Chikara murmured, extracting himself. “Tea first.”

“Hey, Mr Responsible, have some brandy!”

“I’m fine, Kenji. Have some work to do.”

Snorting Futakuchi lolled his head backwards, casting his gaze slantways, taking in the pair of them. “Hoping _he’ll_ give you a firm time, Akaashi-kun.”

“Huh?”

“Prolly charge more than me, though,” Futakuchi whispered, then gazed up at Chikara. “You would not believe the conversation we had on the doorway, Chika-chan.”

“I can believe anything of you,” Chikara said, wiping his hand across his face.

“It’s nothing,” Keiji said, glaring at Futakuchi who really was, as Chikara had told him, a shit-stirrer of unbelievable proportions and not the decent bloke and his saviour as he’d earlier thought. _Fucking drunk blabbermouth!_ “Misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Shaking his head, Chikara got up and wandered into the kitchen. Hearing him filing the kettle, Keiji kicked Futakuchi on the arm, eliciting an ‘ow.’

“You said you’d keep it secret,” he hissed.

“Mmm, I did say that, didn’t I?”  He laughed, then turned back to the screen.

“And will you?”

“Yeah, sure. Just teasing.”

“Well ... don’t. Chikara’s not an idiot and he’ll realise something’s up if you keep talking about it.”

Futakuchi smirked again, reached out for the brandy bottle, and poured himself another measure in his cup. “Gimme Konoha’s number and I’ll be silent forever.”

“Silent on everything?” Keiji asked, seriously tempted.

“Ah, no. Just on the subject of plumbing and –”

“The tap’s not dripping.” Chikara called out.

Staring at Futakuchi, meeting his eyes and seeing the glimmer of merriment, Keiji groaned inwardly. There was no way he’d keep quiet now. “Yeah, about that, I was –” he started to reply.

“I fixed it,” Futakuchi yelled. “You’re welcome, by the way, Obi-Wan Responsible.”

“The ways of the Jedi are not lost on you, Young Kenji Skywalker!” Chikara replied and wandered in, cup of tea in one hand and a folder in the other. “This guy was hopeless in college. You’d think going to a technical school he’d be useful to share a house with but –”

“Hey, I aced Computer Science, which you were very pleased about when your laptop crashed.”

“And why did it crash?”

“Details, details, Chika-chan. The important thing is that I fixed it for you.”

“No, the important thing is that you emptied your can of beer all over it.”He opened up his folder, and stretched his legs under the table, smiling at Keiji. “Don’t trust him for a second,” he said, his eyes already intent on the words in front of him.

The game continued. It was one Fukurodani had taken three sets to finish, but the last set had ended twenty-five to sixteen, the opposition steamrollered by Bokuto snapping back to form and the team working like a well-oiled machine. He watched as his younger self jumped for the ball, foxing their opponents who’d leapt to guard against Bokuto, and leaving themselves wide open to the dump shot.

It had won them the game, and Bokuto – although he’d been yelling for the final ball – had been the first to shout congratulations and ruffle his kouhai’s hair.

“Whoa, you were good, Akaashi-kun. Would have liked you at Date- Tech.”

“Thanks.” He accepted the compliment, draining what was left of his coffee, feeling the sting if the brandy at the back of his throat. There was another game on this DVD, plays he remembered so well, Komi coming into his own and Bokuto tearing down the walls in front of them. Twenty-five – twenty, twenty-five – fifteen. Comprehensive. A team at the top of their game.

_And I was a part of that. For two and a half years, I played on that team, and once we were unstoppable!_

“So, why didn’t you turn pro?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chikara’s focus waning, his eyes flickering up then down and not from right to left.

“Hmm, I looked good there, but I was never Kageyama standard.”

“Not everyone devotes the rest of their life to something they did in school,” Chikara cut in, his tone mild.

“’Cept you,” Futakuchi replied lazily. “Films were your thing even back in Miyagi. Akaashi was clearly useful, just wondered, that’s all.” He turned back to the screen, fast-forwarding until the next match was about to start, then paused the play. “You must have thought about it, playing for a Championship side?”

“You don’t get into a school like Fukurodani and on the team if you’re not serious about volleyball.” Keiji nestled back into the sofa, his shoulder touching Chikara’s. “But I was never like Bokuto. Volleyball was his life. I had other goals.” He didn’t look at Chikara, but he spanned out his hand, touching Chikara’s thigh with his little finger. “Met other people who weren’t only interested in the game.”

But Futakuchi wasn’t listening, his eyes intent on the game, scrutinising Bokuto as he lined up, watching Onaga as he threw the ball in the air for the first serve of the game.

“You’ve lost him to volleyball,” Chikara murmured.

“Want a drink?” Keiji asked, leaning forward to the bottle.

“Nope. Empty stomach. Haven’t had lunch yet.” Sighing, he put down the script and levered himself off the sofa. “Do either of you want something to mop that alcohol up?”

“Nah, I ate,” Futakuchi replied.

“Cookies?”

“No, Mom, I had a proper bento box. It was like being at Junior High again.”

“I’ll make you something,” Keiji added, getting to his feet.

But as he wobbled, Chikara grimaced.  “Stay where you are. I’ll fix it.”

 

He gave it five minutes, then hearing Chikara’s clattering in the kitchen turn quieter, and seeing Futakuchi was now engrossed in the game, firing out comments as Bokuto slammed away a spike, or served too recklessly, Keiji got up and wandered in to join Chikara.

He pondered slipping his hands around Chikara’s waist, resting his head on his shoulder, pulling him close and nuzzling his neck. But there was something stiff about Chikara’s shoulders, his stance uncompromising.

“How was your day?” he asked instead.

“Not as good as yours,” Chikara said, his words slow as he made deliberate chops with his knife. “Clearly.”

“Right, ‘cause I make a habit of this. Jeez, Chikara, he’s your friend who you sprung on me, and –”

“It’s not a dig.” Chikara carried a handful of mushrooms over to the wok, throwing them in the sizzling oil, adding soy sauce, then leant against the counter, gripping the surface top. “I’m tired and hungry.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t begrudge you having some fun. Kenji’s a laugh – I know that. I’m glad you seem to get on.”

“Want to talk?” Keiji said, and this time he snaked an arm around Chikara’s waist.

“Not yet. Need food. You know what I’m like.”

“Did you meet with the producer and the scriptwriter?” he asked, pushing a little.

“Mmm.” He shrugged, causing Keiji to drop his hand, and carried on stirring his veg.  The only sound now was the spitting sauce and sizzle as the mushrooms cooked.

“And?”

“My job to make it work, apparently,” he replied, _sounding_ matter-of-fact.

“Chikaraaaaaaaa!”  Futakuchi’s voice cut between them.

“Yep!”

“That smells good, can I have some, too?”

“Already chopped more mushrooms,” Chikara called back. He smiled wryly, twisted his mouth and planted a kiss on Keiji’s cheek. “You eating, too?”

“I’ll help. Or how about I cook and you get on with your work?”

He shook his head. “This relaxes me. Go back and keep Kenji amused, will you?” He cleared his throat. “If that’s okay. I know he’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but he’s a good guy, really. Well ... he’s a guy.”

“I heard that.”

They both looked up. Futakuchi was lounging in the doorway, hands folded across his chest, ankles crossed and the tip of his toes perpendicular to the floor.

“That’s his celeb pose,” Chikara warned Keiji. “He’ll drape a sweater over his shoulders soon and pretend he’s the protag of one of your shitty manuscripts.”

“Or your movie.”

“Might actually improve it.”

“You think?” Futakuchi turned his head, tilting his chin. “Perfect profile, amirite?”

“Until you open your mouth, and then the effect is ruined,” Chikara fired back.

“Ouch. There was me thinking love would have softened you.”

“It has,” Chikara said, completely unfazed. “Just not towards you.”

Snorting, Futakuchi sat down at the table. He picked up one of the manuscripts from before, and head down he was soon engrossed in the tale.  “I like this!” he said after a while and began reading parts out. “Oh, this girl’s cool. Listen to this bit. She’s talking to some kind of guidance counsellor.  
“ _Red. My name's Red Sargent.'_  
'Ren?'  
'Red.'  
'Riza?'  
Red sighed. 'Aimi.”   
She cracks me up!”

Keiji raised his eyebrows.

“You telling him or shall I?” Chikara laughed.

“What? What? I think it’s great.” He looked up, then drew his brows together, glowering. “What’s the matter with it?”

“Half the world agrees with you, Futakuchi-kun,” Keiji said. “The writer’s plagiarised something, probably assuming that as a small publishing house we’ve never heard of it.”

“Ah. D’you get a lot like that?”

“Nothing quite that blatant.  I read around twenty boy wizard books a month – usually orphans.”

“That’s Harry Potter,” Chikara called out.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.” Futakuchi gave Chikara an on off smile, the type of smile that looked as if he’d stab someone if they slighted him next. He looked at Keiji. “This guy assumes I’m thick as pig shit.”

“Pig shit was _never_ a word I used,” Chikara replied, not sounding the least conciliatory. Giving him a side-glance, Kenji took in the dark circles under his eyes, but his jaw was relaxed and he began to hum as he stirred.

“That’s two words,” Futakuchi snapped. “Or did you not expect me to understand?”

Chikara ceased stirring.

“Thickness is, of course, relative,” Kenji said, a beat later.

The other two stared at him.

“Pig shit is thicker than milk, but not thicker than cement. It’s more like custard.” He paused.  “If you want to read the original story, Futakuchi, I’ve got copies. And you’re right, they’re very good.”

“Got yourself a smooth one, Chikara,” Futakuchi drawled. “Oil on water, very emollient. You really _should_ have visited us at university, Akaashi.”

_Should I?_ “I’d have cramped Chikara’s style,” he said lightly, and smiled as he felt Chikara’s fingers touching his.

“What style?”

Chikara reached for a plastic bowl emptying some prawns into the wok, continuing to stir.  “Hey, I had a hat.”

“Don’t remind me.” Futakuchi shuddered. “Brown. Felt. Beret. UGH!”

“He still has it.”

“It’s my lucky hat. And it’s not a beret!” Chikara protested. “Beret’s don’t have peaks.”

“Please tell me he’s stopped wearing plaid.”

“Nope.”

“Yeah, you see that’s the reason you never pulled, Chika-chan, not your pining.”

 “Fuck off, Futakuchi.” There was a force behind the words, but his smile was good-natured.

“Mind you, now I’ve met Akaashi in person, then I can understand.” He pushed the manuscript to the middle of the table, leaning back in the chair, balancing on two of its legs rather than four. “Kinda reminds me of checking out hot guys, back in the day, and the hosepipe game.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ask him,” Chikara warned. He turned down the hob, then set a pan of water on to boil.

“Aww, it was great.  Squirt a guy with water, see how he reacted and whether he had a sense of humour – Chika, here, didn’t, by the way – and then the other upside was the wet shirt.” He stared at Keiji. “Very revealing seeing someone dripping wet - ”

_Fuck you!_

“- especially if they’re flustered, don’t you think so, Akaashi-kun?”

Chikara had raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing, adding noodles to the boiling water.  And it was his reasonableness, his self-control when he was clearly curious, but not rising to Futakuchi’s bait, that set Keiji’s teeth on edge. He could cope with – had coped with – volatile players and now irate wannabe authors on a regular basis, but faced with the calm that was Chikara, he could feel the guilt rising inside of him. With Futakuchi clearly going to press his buttons at every opportunity, confession was now the only option. That or gag Futakuchi, which he had to be honest was an appealing idea.

“Chikara, about this morning, I –”

“Hold on.” Chikara stirred at the noodles, fishing one out to test. Deciding they were done, he strained them and then added to the pan, mixing in with the mushrooms and prawns.  “Get some bowls, will you?”

“Keep them on the floor, don’t you?” Futakuchi chipped in. “Unusual as most people have them in cupboards but –”

“Will you shut up!” Keiji hissed. 

“He won’t,” Chikara said smoothly. “He gets off on conflict. Should have seen him on court, trying to wind Tanaka up, not to mention Asahi-san.”

“Not exactly difficult.” Futakuchi had picked up the plagiarised manuscript again, flicking through and smiling. “Ah, those were the days.”

They swapped more reminiscences then, and half-listening, Keiji fetched the bowls and three sets of chopstick, laying their table.  With the pair of them animated as they discussed Miyagi, and a possible reunion when their old teams next played, Keiji took a deep breath and began to relax. He was sobering up now, and as Chikara was here, he could maybe do some work, finish the manuscript reading, even if he didn’t tackle any proof reading.

The conversation turned to Chikara’s film, Futakuchi’s questions eliciting sighs and eye rolls from Chikara, but underneath it all there was still that thread of excitement in his words, and a sense of pride.

“I know I’ve moaned about it – poor Keij has been on the brunt of it – but it is amazing being a part of the set up. Crew are good workers, and most of the cast are supportive.”

“Crap script, though.”

Chikara wrinkled up his nose, and twirled his chopsticks into his noodles.  “Story’s good, but the guy can’t write believable dialogue to save his life.”

“Can’t you fire him?”

He shook his head. “Producer’s son.”

“Hire a co-writer?”

“And share the credit?  That won’t go down well.”

“He’ll still want to make money, though,” Keiji offered.

“Yup, but like I said, he’s told me to handle it.” He chewed his food, then poured a glass of water, taking a sip.

They were all silent. It was the longest silence since Futakuchi had arrived, that fact alone surprising Keiji.

“So you’re rewriting it, yeah.”

“Looks like it. I was going to get the cast to work on it, try some improv and see what happens, but ...” He swallowed some water. “- the MC is a prat. He can act but only under instruction, no intuition at all.”

“And is this guy the producer’s other son?” asked Futakuchi.

“No, but I can’t sack him, either. Contracts have been signed, and ... well, he’ll be good if I motivate him.” He flapped his hand. “Enough about me. What’s happening with your injury?”

He shrugged. “Seeing the consultant tomorrow. If he thinks it’s worth doing, then they’ll operate the next day.”

“So soon?”

“He has a window, and the club are paying, so ...” He trailed some noodles above him, slurping them into his mouth and laughing when Chikara pulled a face. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough, unless you want me to move in while I convalesce.”

“Ha – I don’t think so.”

“Just think how useful I’d be round the house,” Futakuchi continued, ignoring Chikara as he winked at Keiji. “Fixing taps and ... uh ...”

“You could be in a cast, and we only have a futon.”

“You’re not letting me have your bed, Chika-chan. We could all share ...” he said, lasciviously licking his upper lip.

Letting the banter wash over him, Keiji carried on eating. He had the measure of Futakuchi now, he thought. Provocative by habit. An instinct to make mischief, something that had made him a formidable opponent, according to Chikara.

But Keiji had faced Kuroo, and Futakuchi, in comparison, was an amateur.

“Do I look like an idiot?” Chikara was saying.

“Well, now you mention it.” He chomped on some more noodles. “Are you scared you’ll have too much fun with me around?”

“I shared a flat with you before, remember?”

“Oh, so you’re more scared _Akaashi-kun_ will have more fun. Is that why you never invited him to visit?”

_And if you had a strong defence, nothing could get through._

But Chikara hadn’t replied. He’d finished his food, placed his chopsticks to the side and was pouring himself more water.

 “I was abroad,” Keiji explained, when the silence began to clog the air. “Reading Classics, I studied in Italy and then in England. And Chikara did invite me at the beginning of the third year, but I couldn’t make it.”

“I’d left by then,” Futakuchi mused. “Got scouted at the end of my second year.”

“And never looked back, right?” Keiji guessed.

Futakuchi slurped the rest of his noodles. “Thanks, that was good. I’ll, um, give you a hand with the dishes.”

“Nope, you’re a guest,” Chikara said, rallying as he got to his feet and picked up the bowls. “Even if you did invite yourself.”

“Gah, he loves me really, you know that.”

The quiet had descended again, except for the sound of running water as it splashed into the sink and the clatter of bowls.

“Do you really need a place to convalesce?” Keiji asked.

 “Nah, you’re good. Couple of days in hospital, and then my dad’s driving me back to Miyagi.” He grinned and eyed Chikara from under his fringe. “Nice of you to offer, Akaashi-kun. I would have appreciated your bedside manner, I’m sure. ”

“It’s nonexistent, but I do have a friend with spare room.”

“If you tell me it’s Fox-san, I’ll cancel my dad immediately.”

Laughing, Keiji shook his head. “My old manager. She’s a physiotherapist now. Mind you, her bedside manner is brisk and uncompromising, but she helped Bokuto when he was out.”

“Good idea. Shirofuku-kun will have you back to fitness in no time at all.”

“Noooo, I want my mom’s home cooking and lots of spoiling. Cake. I can’t wait for cake. And katsu chicken.”

“Haven’t you got to get back into the swing of things quickly if you want to make a full recovery?”

“Meh, we’ll see.” He got up. “Where’s your toilet?”

 

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I _could_ ask Shirofuku. She’d be grateful for the extra cash.”

“Just.” Chikara stacked the last bowl on the draining board, then instead of getting a tea towel to dry them, he flopped down in his chair. “Leave him a while, okay.”

Futakuchi wandered back into the kitchen carrying the brandy bottle. Pouring a little in his glass, he topped it up with more than a splash of water, then proffered the bottle to Keiji.

“I should do some more work.”

“I have some Karasuno DVDs you could watch,” Chikara offered.

The pained expression on Futakuchi’s face said it all, and Keiji bit his lip to stop the laugh surging inside him.

“Star Wars, then.”

“Better, but ... uh ...” He nudged the manuscript towards Keiji. “If you’ve got that book, could I borrow it?”

 

Futakuchi curled himself on the futon after that, reading the book, and occasionally passing a comment or reading out a passage he particularly liked. Listening to him, observing the enjoyment, Keiji settled down to going through the rest of his picks from the slush pile, and remembering anew his excitement whenever he discovered a book he could lose himself in.

With one possible from the ten, he could count it as a good, if patchy day. He’d make notes on the one he wasn’t immediately dismissing, read it again in the morning, and then if he still liked it, hand it further up the chain.

On the floor, sprawled on cushions, Chikara lay on his stomach frowning over the script. He held a pencil, hesitantly scribbling out lines, only to rub them out a second later.

“Coffee?” Keiji nudged him with his foot.

“Mmm, please.”

“Making progress?”

“Not really. Think I’m too ... um ... not attached to it exactly, but I’m finding it hard to be objective.”

“Because it’s all shit?” Futakuchi piped up.

“Something like that, but I can’t rewrite the whole lot.”

“If the basic story is good,” Keiji said, getting up from the sofa, “then maybe freshen up the dialogue.”

“It’s a script. It’s all dialogue.”

“Yes, smart arse, I know that. What I mean is the interacting dialogue, and the bits that really stand out as _bad_ to you.”

“Like all of it,” Chikara mumbled, and bit the end of his pencil.

“Hand it over.”

“Huh?”

“Fresh pair of eyes. I’ll look over it.”

“Keiji?”

“It’s what I do, isn’t it?” he said wearily. “Plough through crap every day, only this time I’m going to see if something’s salvageable without rejecting it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Yes, you can.”

“But I can’t pay you.”

Keiji stared down at him, stared into the dark heavy lidded eyes that so often looked sleepy but at that moment only stared back at him with concern and warmth and gratitude.

He smiled at him. “Coffee and cleaning the kitchen would be a start.”

“Aww, you guys. You’re just like Blue and Adam.”

“You telling him, or shall I?” Chikara said, smirking.

“Hey, I’m not asking you to kiss. I don’t want Chikara to die.”

“So I’m Adam, then?” Chikara said, pursing his lips.

“Well, you’re more Gansey, I guess – crappy boat shoes and polo shirts. Bet we find out later he wears plaid. I’m definitely Ronan. He’s cool and brooding. I can pull that off.”

Keiji stifled a snort, not telling him he was more like Kavinsky, but from the way Chikara’s shoulders were shaking when he left the room, he knew he was thinking the same thing.  Picking up the script, he flicked to the summary, skimmed through the character descriptions, and studied the opening scene. And he saw immediately Chikara’s issue. The premise was good, and could make for an exciting film, with imagination and world building,  but the characters, well, one in particular,  was staid and flat and ...

_It’s the women. This guy can’t write females to save his life. I mean it probably wouldn’t matter in a Hollywood movie, but this needs some credibility or it’ll get trashed before it makes it to even DVD stage._

“You look different,” Futakuchi murmured, looking up from his book.

“Hmm?”

“Excited.” He tilted his head to one side, scrutinising Keiji’s face. “More so than when you were working. Is the script good? Is he wrong about that?”

“No, it’s shit, but ... I ... like working out solutions. I always have.”

“And you’ve sussed it? Already?”

“I’ve seen the problem, or at least, I’ve seen what bothers me and why I’d be rejecting this at first read.  Getting the solution is another matter and will take more work. Bit like volleyball.”

“Huh?”

“In what way?” Chikara asked, wandering in with three mugs of coffee, setting them carefully on the table.

“Futakuchi, you asked earlier how I coped with Bokuto in a game. It was because I learned to anticipate his moods and accommodate them. And in way, his swoops in mood became a strength because the opposition were used to taking him into account, so they didn’t watch the rest of us. But it took work, a lot of work in the gym and in practise matches, to get us shifting in the same gear, so we didn’t only look to Bokuto. This script is ... uh ...”

“Bokuto?” Futakuchi shook his head. “Now I’m really confused.”

“What are you saying, Keij?”

“Your scriptwriter’s focused all his energy on the leading man, who despite having some great lines, is now quite boring and predictable. It’s ... um ...” He swallowed. “Look, I know this is supposed to be drama, but from another angle it could be a parody. So, either ham the whole thing up and turn it into a comedy.”

Chikara’s grimaced.  “That won’t go down well.”

“Or beef up the supporting cast, especially the female lead. Concentrate on _her_ dialogue and role as sidekick, and you could twist this around and stop everyone else looking one-dimensional. Who’s the actress again?”

“Hamada Mari,” Chikara replied, and there was an air of expectancy in his words.

“Who?”Keiji asked and shook his head. “Sorry, should I have heard of her?”

“Formally known as Mari-chan,” Chikara qualified.

_Uh?_

“OH! Wasn’t she that finalist in Japan Idol a few years ago?” Futakuchi interrupted. “I loved her. She should have won.” He frowned. “Is this movie a musical?”

“No, Mari-chan wants to break into acting. She’s not bad, to be honest,” Chikara replied. “Camera loves her.”

As Futakuchi gave a rendition of Mari-chan’s last hit single (hit was a relative term, she was hardly a household name, despite Futakuchi appearing to know her entire repertoire) Keiji flicked through some more pages, only vaguely aware that Chikara had joined him on the sofa and was taking quick sips of black coffee.

“Top tip we give writers for their rewrite,” Keiji said, when Futakuchi had stopped singing and returned to his book, “is to literally rewrite it, or rather retype it into another doc. It makes the mistakes more obvious.”

Exhaling slowly, Chikara reached out for the script. “Guess I have my work cut out for me tonight.”

But Keiji kept hold of the pages. “Let me get to the end. This script might be horrible, but you’re right, the story’s reasonable and I kind of want to know what happens.”

“Don’t pity me.”

Keiji raised his eyebrows. “When have I ever done that?”

“We all take pity on Chika-chan, it’s the only way to shake up his life,” Futakuchi chimed. He lifted his head up from the book, smirked, then raised his arm to ward off the cushion Chikara threw at him.

 

***

Chikara was up first the next morning, pottering around in the kitchen and humming to himself. When he didn’t automatically appear with two cups of coffee, Keiji slid out of bed, wrapped himself in an old hoodie and joined him by the oven, warming his hands.

“Natto and rice?”

“Mmm, decided we could all do with a nutritious breakfast, especially in this weather.”

“Yeah, snow’s not let up, has it?” Keiji peered out of the window, viewing the flurries that had settled overnight. “I should check work, see if the boiler’s mended.”

“I have to go in. Look, um, I can take the train, or if you drop me off, then you can have the car for the day.”

He was gearing up for something. Keiji let him breathe, not yet pushing.

“If you’re not in the office ...” he began.

“Mmm?”

“Would you take Futakuchi to his doctor’s appointment?”

Oh, was that all?

“Uh, yeah, sure. I can’t guarantee I’ll be here, but ‘course, it’s no problem.”

“Then ... uh ... is there any chance you can check now whether you’ll be free?”

It was five past seven. His manager wouldn’t be in yet. Barely anyone would be there unless they’d camped overnight, and there was very little point in trying to find out so early, but the fact of Chikara asking ...

He dialled reception, hanging on as the tone trilled and trilled. It kicked into the answer machine, a bland message giving no news. “I’ll try my manager,” he murmured.

She wouldn’t be happy. Probably chasing around trying to find her kids’ missing socks, or nagging them to finish breakfast, she would not appreciate his call this early, but he still dialled her number, preferring that to sending a message she’d ignore until business hours.

“Akaashi!” she snapped. “Koji, eat your food don’t play with it!”

“Fujisama-san, apologies for calling so early, but I wondered –”

“If the office was open today!” She took a breath, he could hear the hiss as she exhaled. “Don’t worry, you’re the third person to call. At least you left it till after seven.”

“Ah.” He gazed at Chikara, who was watching with what looked like resignation and possibly worry in his eyes.

“Heating is still not fixed, so do what you did yesterday.”

“Fine, I’ll pick up some more scripts.”

“Yup, although the proof reading is more of a priority.”

Saying another thank you, Keiji nodded to Chikara. “No problem. I can take him.”

“Will you stay with him?”

“Uh ... What, hold his hand? He’s a grown man.”

“With a tendency to run away at anything medical,” Chikara muttered. “I called his old senpai, and he should have had this consultation earlier. It would have been simpler, but he delayed it.”

“Okay. I’ll take my laptop, get on with some work and stay in the waiting room.”

Chikara wasn’t one to effuse, to gush out terms expressing his gratitude, but he wound an arm around Keiji’s waist, rested his head in his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Are you worried?”

“A bit.”

“Oh, you guys!  Domestic bliss this early in the morning.” Futakuchi sauntered in, flopping down into a kitchen chair, and propping his chin on his hands as he fluttered his eyelashes at the pair of them. “Wow, Akaashi-san, do you ever look anything less than immaculate? How do you manage to get out of bed, Chika-chan?”

“Shut up, you sleaze. I’ve made your favourite food, which you’re going to eat, and then get ready for your appointment.”

Futakuchi yawned. “I have plenty of time, Mom.”

“And Keiji can drive you,” Chikara said, ignoring him. “So you don’t need to worry about buses, trains or walking. Okay?”

“Ha – you really don’t have to bother. I am capable of getting there by myself!”

Chikara coughed. Well, he more spluttered out two words, words that had the effect of actually making Futakuchi flush, words which sounded very much like ‘wisdom teeth’.

“Okay, I get the message.” Futakuchi scowled. “Thank you, Akaashi-kun, I appreciate the effort.”

Clearly neither of them was going to explain, so putting the kettle on, Keiji made drinks, and let the morning wash over him. It was a companionable breakfast.  Chikara and Futakuchi making more conversational catch ups. By their very nature they could have excluded Keiji, but both, he was surprised to note, tried to include him, mentioning players he knew and asking his opinions on the National teams.  Chikara didn’t hurry out, either, lingering over breakfast and gave only a cursory glance to his phone when it buzzed out a message. But in the end, he left first, fist bumping Futakuchi after wishing him luck, and giving Keiji one of his soft smiles, sleepy and warm, the sort of smile that always caused a small leap in Keiji’s stomach, even after a year of living together.

“You’re not giving up a day at work for me, are you?” Futakuchi asked, a full two seconds after Chikara had left. “Only, I really don’t need a chaperone at twenty-six.”

“Office is closed again. I’m going to work on some proof-reading, and,” he added before Futakuchi could jump in, “the great thing about laptops is that you can take them anywhere!”

He didn’t grumble anymore, seemingly resigned as he loped towards the bathroom. Keiji cleared the bowls, placing everything in the sink as he set the bowls to soak.

_Drip._

Not again!  He stared at the tap, daring it to defy him, but it was clearly a tap of stern mettle and a devil-may-care attitude, for he could see another droplet forming.

_Drop_

“No, no, no!” He grabbed it, tightening it so hard his palm hurt.

Silence.

“I’m done!” Futakuchi called from the door, towel around his waist and one over his shoulders. “What are you looking so angsty over?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. _None of this matters._ “What time’s your appointment?”

“Nine ... ish.”

“Well, can you check? If this guy’s squeezing you in, then he’s not going to be happy if you’re late. Plus I don’t know how much time to leave for the roads and –”

“Wow, Mom, you’re as bad as Chikara.”

He gave him his on/off smile. “Want to explain why the words ‘wisdom teeth’ get you flustered?”

 “Appointment’s at nine-thirty,” he muttered and stomped towards the lounge to dress.

Giving the tap a last lingering glare, Keiji left the kitchen for the shower.

 

The traffic was heavy, cars trundling on the gritted roads. With the heater on in the car, and the radio playing loud, Keiji was aware Futakuchi was talking but he couldn’t make out a word, everything was a low-level grumble. His fingers were drumming on his thigh, an obsessive out of time beat to the thump of the bass  thrumming from the radio. Keiji kept his eyes on the road, checking his mirrors, only occasionally catching Futakuchi’s eye, although it was probably an accident.

There was a lull in the music, only a scratching sound as the radio blipped out.

“How much longer?”

“Ten minutes,” Keiji guessed. “You’ll be there in plenty of time.”

“Well, whoopy-doo.” He rolled his eyes. “You can report to Ennoshita-senpai like a good kouhai.”

Keiji didn’t bite. He smiled instead, then reached out to fiddle with the radio and stop the crackling. “There are CDs somewhere if you’d rather.”

“Yours or Chikara’s?”

“His.”

“Prefer silence, to be honest.”

It was ingrained in him – the sniping – but the edge in his voice was wavering, hesitant, with no hint of mockery.

“I’m cold.”

“Sorry, the heater isn’t very good.”

“As we’re going less than a mile an hour, why don’t you drop me off at that coffee shop, and I’ll pick us up two drinks?”

“Better not.”

“Aw, c’mon. It’s not like I’m going anywhere!” He shivered again, folding his arms across his chest and clutching with his hands.

“Might as well wait ‘til we get there.”

“Their drinks machine might be broken, and then where will we be?”

“It’s a private clinic, they’ll have coffee.” As the car in front sped up a fraction, Keiji pressed down on the accelerator.  He watched Futakuchi about to add another argument and leapt in with, “And if they don’t, then I’ll fetch you something.”

“The cafe is only over there.” Futakuchi tried the door. “Why is this locked?”

“Because, Futa-chan,” Keiji said, very levelly, “If you do a runner, then my boyfriend will hunt us down and strangle us both with our own entrails.”

Caught between laughter and whining, Futakuchi made an odd snorting sound. “He wouldn’t. Chikara’s incapable of doing anything remotely illegal.”

“He knows a lot about disguises and has access to prop weapons. Chikara could kill us both, walk away and even if he filmed it, no one would suspect him.”

“Shit, he’s dangerous. How do you sleep at night?”

“Who says I sleep?”

Futakuchi frowned, not picking up on the insinuation. “How about we make a pact? I’ll tell him I’ve been and you can –”

 “He’s concerned,” Keiji interrupted, switching to seriousness.

“I didn’t ask him to be,” mumbled Futakuchi.

But he was silent for the rest of the journey, his head lolling against the window, one hand on his thigh.

_His knuckles are white._

 

Pulling up into the clinic’s car park, Keiji turned the vehicle off, not moving, waiting for Futakuchi. Who also didn’t move. He didn’t say anything, didn’t twitch, or pull his scarf around him, but stayed in the same position, his head pressed against the window.

And much as Keiji wanted to wait it out, the time was forging onwards.

“Ready?”

Silence.

“Futakuchi?”

A faint shifting in the seat.

“We need to get inside.”

The palm of his hand pressed into his shoulder and he flexed his neck. “It’s fine,” Futakuchi mumbled. “I c’n still play.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just needed the break.”

“Long break,” Keiji murmured. “I’ve not seen you play live.”

“I’m good now. You can turn the car around.”

Keiji chewed his lip. Playing nursemaid was not a job he’d ever wanted to get back into. It had sat uncomfortable on his shoulders all the time he’d played at Fukurodani, yet he’d proved annoyingly adept with Bokuto.

He inhaled slowly, careful not to make too much noise, to seem as natural as possible as if they had all the time in the world and not two minutes to go. “What harm is there going to see the doctor?  He might confirm all of this.”

He closed his eyes, then leant back against the car seat. And now Futakuchi’s hands were clasped up to his mouth as if he was in deep prayer (which perhaps he was.) “Chikara thinks I’m scared of the operation.”

“Are you?”

“Shitting bricks, to tell you the truth, but it’s not just that.”

“The recovery?” Keiji suggested. “You’re a fit guy, you’ll be back before you know it as long as you’re determined.”

 “That’s a lie. I could have all the determination in the world and still break down. You _must_ know that.”

“So you’ll give up now.”

“No, that’s not what I said.”

“Then ...?”

“What if he tells me I’m fucked?” His voice was faint, the sound of another car pulling alongside almost drowning him out.

Bokuto had looked drained, Keiji remembered. The very real fear that it would be over, grabbing him at  odd moments. Only Keiji’s telephone reassurances, and Kuroo’s presence had kept the worst of his demons at bay. But maybe Futakuchi didn’t have that back up. Overly confident, on and off court, never doubting his actual ability, perhaps that had left him without a network of support.

Because, yes, Chikara was concerned, but did he know the depths of Futakuchi’s doubt?

“You deal with that when or rather if it happens.” Keiji replied after a while. And then he reached across, pulling on Futakuchi’s prayer hands and he clasped them in his own. “You have a plan B, you were telling me that yesterday.”

“There is no plan. I might have been scouted from college, but I’d let things slide there. I didn’t care, you see. College was the means to play volleyball, that’s all I wanted.”  He sniffed, finally opening his eyes to stare at Keiji. “Remember those lists you had to make when you were a kid. ‘What I will be doing in ten years time?’”

Keiji swallowed away the sudden soft mass forming in his throat, Futakuchi’s memories jarring with his own.

“Mine consisted only of volleyball: playing for Japan by the age of twenty-two was at the top, closely followed by scouted by a Brazilian Club,” he continued, seemingly not noticing Keiji’s intake of breath.

“We all had dreams.”

“But mine were _only_ volleyball.”

They were three minutes late. Keiji gripped Futakuchi’s hands tighter. “I was supposed to have written my first novel by now. Instead, I proof read other people’s writing and reject shitty novels. I don’t have a draft. I don’t even have a properly formed plan, just a notebook somewhere with some lines jotted down once upon a time.” And then he released him, unlocking the passenger door with a click. “Look, I suspect only Chikara’s living his fifteen years of age dream, and he’s not that happy either.”

“Fucking hell. Is he never happy?”

“Suspect not. That’s why he’s successful. Or will be.” Keiji sniffed. “Look, I’m not forcing you in there, but I’ll stay with you. If you want me in the consultation, then I’ll be there as well. But let’s give it a try, yeah?”

“Scared of Chikara?”

Keiji grinned, hearing the faint teasing note back in Futakuchi’s voice. “A little, but not in the way you think.”

“Ah, don’t get enigmatic on me, Akaashi-chan.” Futakuchi rolled one shoulder, then the other – a touch tentatively. Zipping up his jacket, he rewound his scarf before finally opening his door.  “Come on, then, let’s get it over with.”

 


	3. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That darn tap starts dripping again ...

[So it’s all good?]

[The doctor doesn’t think it’s career threatening, put it that way.]

[You’re sure about this? Only Kenji’s been known to fudge the truth.]

[Chikara, I sat with him in the consultation. When he dislocated his shoulder pre-season, he tore a ligament, but they didn’t pick up on that because they assumed it was a trapped nerve.]

[And they can fix it?]

Keiji chuckled to himself. He thought about handing the phone over to Futakuchi who was now sprawled out on the futon, throwing cashew nuts in the air and catching them in his mouth. He looked – there was only one word for it – carefree. And Keiji realised again that the self-assurance before had all been a front, the real fear of losing something he loved had prayed upon him.

[Keiji?]

[Yes, they can fix it. He’s booked in for Friday.]

“Tell Chika-chan I said hi,” Futakuchi called out.

“How do you know I’m texting him?”

“You look all mushy,” Futakuchi teased, throwing another nut in the air. “Besides who else would you be contacting?”

He had a point, but Keiji still gave in to the urge to throw a cushion at him, even if it upset the cashews so they spilled over the floor.

[How’s he taking it?]

[He’s fine and says hi]

[Cool. Do me a favour and watch him, will you?]

[Course.]

“And now you’ve gone all thoughtful, Akaashi-chan,” Futakuchi said. “What has Chika-chan said?” He sucked his upper lip. “Let me guess, he wants you to keep an eye on me, right?”

There was no point lying.

“Something like that.” He put his phone on the table, joining Futakuchi on the futon. “What is the story about your wisdom teeth?”

“You mean he’s not told you?” His eyebrows were high and he whistled. “I thought you were winding me up earlier. Wow, thank you Chikara.”

“So?” Keiji said idly.

“Uh...” Futakuchi scrabbled around picking up some of the spilled cashews, leaving them on the side rather than back on the bowl. “It’s not much really. I had to have a tooth out when I was seventeen and ...um ... I tried to leg it out the window.”

“And Chikara stopped you? I didn’t think you’d known each other that long?”

“Careful, anyone would think you were jealous,” Futakuchi said, smirking. “Nah, it wasn’t him. My old team actually. We had a guy, Pantalons we called him, Onagawa really. He ... dunno how but he found out I had an appointment and also knew I’d bunked off one, so managed to corall the team into taking me.”

“Good friend of yours?”

“Pantalons?” He shrugged. “Not particularly.  We got on as teammates, but, you know we didn’t have that much in common. Anyway, they all got me there, filled up the waiting room and brought me back.”

“You didn’t like the dentist I take it.”

He shivered, and speaking his voice shuddered. “Needles. I really hate them.”

“But you got through it.”

“Well, yeah, backing down in front of the team, when I was due to be the next captain. Couldn’t have that.”

“So ... uh ... how come Chikara knew about this?”

“Ah, because when we shared a house, I had to have another tooth out. And my mum didn’t trust me to get to the appointment, couldn’t call on Datekou to chaperone me, so phoned Chikara and told him everything.” He grinned at something, a long distant memory wisping past him. “Poor guy. I think he thought it would just be routine. Last tooth had been fine, but ... uh ... the thought of the ... needle...” He shuddered again ... “I tried to do a bunk again. He caught me – he’s bloody fast and strong when he gets you in a stranglehold, and practically frogmarched me into the surgery.”

“Explains a lot.”

“Mmm, he might not want you taking me on Friday though.”

“Why not?”

Futakuchi laughed.“Because I got horribly blabby and affectionate under the anaesthetic and snogged him on the bus home.”

New information. He felt his mouth move to neutral, his lids shuttering halfway.

Huh?

_Did I say that out loud?_

“Yeah,” Futakuchi mused. “I’m surprised we weren’t chucked off.”

He picked up the last of the cashews, then in one smooth motion scooped them into his hand and got to his feet. “Hey, how about I make lunch now, or else I’ll treat you both tonight.”

“Uh ... sure.”

“Akaashi-kun?”

“Hmm?”

Futakuchi winked. “Don’t worry about it, we didn’t use tongues.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah, I noticed you go deadpan when you’re thinking.”

It was dumb. He knew that. They’d not been together. And from what Futakuchi had said, it was an anaesthesia induced kiss, probably against Chikara’s will and -

So why hasn’t he ever mentioned it?

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Keiji, stop being a dick.  But his mind was calculating everything, the infuriating habit he had of creating scenarios to find every possible solution, flooding his brain

One – it was years ago and Chikara pushed him away and it was never repeated.

Two – it was never repeated but Chikara and/or Futakuchi wanted it to be. (Which means for one or both of them there’s unresolved issues here)

Three – it was repeated ... and they were living together ... and it ended -

When?

Fuck!

But he’d have told me, wouldn’t he?

But no, when he thought about it, Chikara had been cagey about college and boys and anyone else, declaring he didn’t want to hear, that they should wipe the slate clean.

“It not my business, Keij,” Chikara had once murmured, when Keiji had burbled an apology for mentioning a man he’d met abroad. “It’s the past, not the future.”

So Keiji hadn’t felt he could ask after that. _But maybe I should have done?_

_Was that why he never invited me to stay?_

A sudden burst of frustration, irritation and anger at himself for succumbing to brooding, and he slapped his cheeks hard with both hands.

Don’t be a dick, he repeated in his head. The past and one possible kiss under the influence is not important.

“Akaashi!”

“Yeah.”

“Uh ... bit of a problem.”

“What!” Jesus fucking Christ could Futakuchi not even find a kettle?

And then he heard it, a mad rush of water, like rain drumming on the window, except it wasn’t raining, it was still icy outside and  - He got up and hurtled to the kitchen.

Futakuchi had his hands around the kitchen sink tap, a vain attempt, from the look of the fountain he’d unleashed, to stop the water from squirting everywhere.

“What the fuck!”

“It was dripping,” Futakuchi yelled. “So I thought I’d mend it again, but ... uh ... Help!”

“I’ll call someone. Uh ... just ... get away. You’re drenched.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem, I kinda stuck my thumb in the tap and it’s stuck.”

“But the water’s still coming out.

“I think I broke the mixer. Look,” he pleaded, “it worked for that boy in Holland. Didn’t he stop a whole dike from flooding the city?”

“That’s a made-up story, Futakuchi,” Keiji despaired, “Fucking hell, do have any idea what you’re doing to my kitchen.”

“I DON’T CARE!” Futakuchi shouted. “BUT AT THE MOMENT MY FUCKING THUMB HURTS!”

“Okay,” Keiji tried to reason. “Will it help if I turn the water off?”

“YOU THINK!” Futakuchi kicked the cupboard. “Under the sink.”

Crawling on the floor, Keiji flicked off the small water tap. At once, the torrent ceased, and all he could hear now was the gurgle of the water swirling down the plughole and Futakuchi’s groans as he tried to free himself.

“Washing up liquid,” Keiji suggested.

“To do your dishes while I’m here?”

“Lubrication,” Keiji huffed. “Clearly not something you’ve had experience of.”

“Now’s not the time, Akaashi-chan, cute though you are.”

“Look, do you want my help, or not!” he snarled, getting to his feet.

“Hey, I’m not the tight arse who won’t pay for a plumber!”

“No, you’re just the ... the ... fat thumbed, pain in the arse!”

“What! I was doing you a favour.”

“By breaking the sink.” He squeezed out some liquid, working it into a lather, then grabbed Futakuchi’s stuck hand. “Keep still.”

Smearing the soap over Futakuchi’s hand, concentrating on the shaft of his thumb, trying to smooth the lubrication past the rim of the tap.

“Jeez, it’s wedged in.”

 

“Ow!”

“Sorry. I’ll try to be gentle, but –” Keiji pressed his fingers into Futakuchi’s flesh, hoping to smooth the passage. “Hell, I’m not sure –”

“No, it is loosening. I can ... twist ... it ... a ...” He screwed up his face. “More soap?”

Keiji squirted more into Futakuchi’s palm, this time not diluting with water, but letting the green viscous liquid pool into his hand. “Come on, easy does it. Mm, it’s slippy.”

“It’s coming. I can feel it. Ah!” He winced, then gasped again.”Come on. Fuck, fuck –“

“Almost there ... it’s ... yeah ... almost.”He pulled gently, but the gap the tap and Futakuchi’s palm hadn’t increased. In fact, he was beginning to think it had decreased, that Futakuchi had somehow wedged it in again. “No ... don’t stop. Ease it out. Use the slipperiness.”

“It hurts.”

“More grease.”

“Yeah ... ah ... yeah ... that’s better ... I can feel it coming ... yeah ... OHH!”

“Having fun,” drawled a voice.

It was odd how they both turned their heads slowly to the figure in the doorway. Neither snapped their heads in that direction, perhaps not quite believing who would be there.

“Chikara ... you’re home,” Keiji said stupidly.

“Your observation skills are as sharp as ever,” Chikara said, not moving from the doorjamb.

“His thumb’s stuck,” Keiji explained, hurriedly dropping Futakuchi’s hand.

And in that moment, the traitorous thumb slid out of the tap as easy as a tongue poking through lips. As easy as Futakuchi’s pointed pink tongue, now sticking out between his teeth.

“Hey, Chika-chan,” he breezed. “Wanna get lubed up with us?”

“I’m trying to work out whether I’m relieved this is what your conversation was about, or annoyed you seem to have destroyed the kitchen?” he replied, icily calm.

“That tap was dripping again,” Futakuchi continued, a smile twitching on his lips,  “so I tried to mend it and then ... um ...”

“He thought he was a Dutch boy,” Keiji said at the same time, and fought an insane urge to giggle.

Chikara closed his eyes. Keiji could see a set to his jaw, the sure sign he was gritting his teeth, reining in his irritation. He waited for the deep breath and whistling exhale as he unwound. But it didn’t come. Instead, his eyes snapped open. “Right. Get out. Dry off and leave this to me.”

“I could help,” Keiji offered.

“So could I,” Futakuchi added.

“One of you is a liability and the other has no idea what they’re doing. And no, I’m not saying which is which. Now, get out,” Chikara said, taking three strides closer, “and leave me to sort out this mess.”

“Tea?” Keiji offered.

“How do you intend to fill the kettle?” Chikara growled.

“Oh ... right ... I’ll ... uh ... Why are you home so early?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

_Oh._

“You sure you don’t want me to hold your tool, Chika-chan?” Futakuchi teased, adding a leer as he loomed close. Then he flinched, jumping behind Keiji. “Jeez, you’re scary when you have a sense of humour failure.”

“Short circuited on all the water spraying around,” Chikara muttered.

And then he exhaled. Loudly.

“Hang this up for me, will you, Keiji?” he asked, removing his jacket.

 

Chikara in the kitchen, mending things, was much like Chikara in the kitchen cooking. After a while, he began to hum to himself, and not even the clatter and bangs and a dropped spanner (or whatever it was) caused him to curse. He was happier, had always been happier, when he was working on the solution, and by the time he wandered into the lounge, having changed out of his wet clothes, but rubbing his hair with the towel, all traces of the dark mood had left his face.

“It’s all done.” He even smiled. “Fortunately, your incredibly prescient boyfriend had the foresight to buy more washers on the way back. Kind of had the idea Kenji’s handiwork wouldn’t last.”

“Hey! I fixed it!”

“With a crumbling old washer.” His smile was deeper now. “Anyway, enough of that. You’re booked in for Friday, right?”

“I guess.” Futakuchi moped, then he sighed as Chikara rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am. There’s no problem. I will get there. I will stay there.”

He got up, giving Keiji’s hair a last ruffle. “Right, what are we doing for food?”

“Futakuchi-kun has very kindly offered to cook,” Keiji replied.

“Uh ... pizza for three it is then,” Chikara joked, and dodged the kick for Futakuchi. “Or we could go out.”

He was very balanced, his smile the same as always, and yet there was something a little off about Chikara. And Keiji remembered the ‘Doesn’t matter’ from earlier. The tone rather than the words clearly indicating something _was_ the matter.

“What’s up?” he muttered.

But he shook his head, a minimal movement to the side, his smile not fading. 

“I’ll treat you,” Futakuchi said. “But I wouldn’t mind getting changed, if the bathroom’s free.”

“He’s learning tact,” Chikara muttered. “Who’d have thought it? Sorry, you’ve had to deal with -”

“You know, we get on quite well,” Keiji interrupted, and caught his hand, pressing it to his lips. “You need to stop worrying about me, and also trying to hold it together. We can talk, you know?”

“I know.”

“So ... what happened today?”

Letting out a groan, Chikara sank to the floor. “Your dumbass boyfriend got pissed off when the script revisions he suggested were dismissed, lost his temper and was told to cool off.”

“What?” Keiji blinked, for Chikara rarely lost his temper, always preferring to grit his teeth and plough on. “Uh... was it that bad?”

“No ... yes ... it was ... They didn’t listen. At all. They want to pare down the female lead’s part even further.”

“But she’s the interesting one.”

“Yeah, and give part of her back-story to the hero. Oh, and she’s an orphan now.”

“But weren’t her parents the key to saving their asses when –”

“Yeah, not anymore. They want to tech this thing up, and have decided the lead gets some kind of gadget belt that can –”

“So it’s a cheap as shit version of Batman.”

“With a female Robin, who can only scream and beg for help,” Chikara said miserably. “And the trouble is, I can’t walk off and cite artistic differences because no one knows what my artistic principles are. I’ll be labelled difficult. The producer already wants to sack me.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t, so that’s something, isn’t it? He must know you’re valuable.”

“No, I’m cheap. One of the backers was in the meeting, and I could see him staying my execution.” He flopped his head on Keiji’s lap. “Shall I give up and become a plumber instead? Might be more lucrative.”

“Maybe when Futakuchi’s back to fitness, he’ll employ both of us as minders.”

“Thanks for taking him.”

“You already thanked me,” Keiji said, and started to caress his hair. “And he’s going to be fine, so stop worrying about him, too.”

“He’s scared of needles. Daft lug.”

_You sound so fond._

“He’s scared of fucking up his future more, and he’s faced that so ...”

“Have you always been this wise?” Chikara said, sniffing a little.

“Yeah, I was born like it,” Keiji replied lightly. “My mum got so pissed off when I spouted Plato at six weeks.” He cleared his throat, wondering whether to broach the subject of the indiscretion on the bus. It would be good to have it out in the open, to joke about, have something to tease Chikara about. But then the other options, the other scenarios swirled in his mind, and –

“Don’t worry.” Chikara’s words broke the silence.

“Hmm?”

“I won’t chuck the job in, and I’ll do my best to finish this rotten movie, even if it sabotages any artistic scruple I have.”

He’d raised his head, staring up at Keiji, his eyes warm and flickering with concern. “But the thing about artistic integrity is that it never really leaves us, but sometimes has to hibernate to survive.” He coughed. “Keiji, if the publishing house is too much for you, then ...” He swallowed. “I know you’re staying there as much to support me as anything, but if ...”

“Hey.” Keiji bent towards Chikara, his voice a whisper. “It’s not too much. I sometimes think being a grown up is knowing when to let go of dreams.”

“No, never!”

“Or when to preserve them,” Keiji amended. “I’m twenty-five, Chikara, and I ... we ... have all the time in the world for our dreams, it’s people like Futakuchi and Bokuto-san who only have a small window of time, and even then it doesn’t mean the end of everything.”

 

They did end up eating pizza. Futakuchi, who still insisted on paying, had heard of an Italian restaurant he was desperate to go to, and even ordered the cab to take them there. And although Keiji was aware there were still things he needed to discuss with Chikara, that their conversation was not yet done, he had to admit it was good to be out, to be having some fun without worrying about money, or the future, or even a solitary dripping tap.

And if he’d had misgivings about Futakuchi as a dining companion, they were misplaced. As much as he mocked those around him, to staff he was friendly, laying on charm, Chikara might have called it, but it had the effect that the wait staff were polite and assiduous, ensuring good service (and extra garlic bread).

It was as Keiji was tearing off a piece of his pizza, dipping it in some aioli, and letting the bickering between his companions wash over him -

_(Why anchovies?_

_Because you don’t like them, so I get to eat it all._

_I never realised quite how mean you were, Chika-chan. Sharing is good!_

_Your idea of sharing is you grab everything before anyone else has a chance. Besides, I’m hungry!)_

\- that he noticed a couple in the corner watching them. Whether they were a couple as in a pair that were together, or friends, or (he peered closer) a father and daughter, Keiji didn’t know, but they’d been spotted and the glances were becoming more frequent, as was the conversation Keiji was sure was directed their way.

“You not enjoying your food, Akaashi-kun?” Futakuchi asked, leaning over to refill his glass.

“No, it’s good. Just ... think you might have been recognised. There’s a man over there, who keeps looking this way. Reminds me of when I’m out with Bokuto-san.”

He didn’t quite preen, but Futakuchi was clearly pleased by the turn of events. His cheeks pinked a little, and he licked his lips before running his fingers though his hair, letting it fall with perfection across his forehead. “Anyone hot?”

“Not bad for an older man,” Keiji murmured, side-eyeing Chikara who was deliberately not reacting. “ _She’s_ very attractive.”

“Oh, I must –”

“No, don’t look. He’s coming over!” Keiji hissed.

“I don’t have a pen.”

“Why would you need a pen?” Chikara asked, faintly exasperated.

“Autographs! Oh, never mind, I’m sure a selfie will be fine,” Futakuchi fussed, then bared his teeth. “I haven’t flossed with pepperoni, have I?”

“No, you look perfect,” Chikara sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t trust you at all. Akaashi, tell me the truth, am I –”

The man was moving purposefully now, weaving his way through the tables, coming to a halt to let a waiter past, before continuing his steps towards them.  His suit looked expensive, Keiji noticed, and he was focused, utterly focused on his destination. But unlike the fans who approached Bokuto, there was nothing remotely nervous about him. Okay, so Futakuchi wasn’t quite in that superstar league but ... _He’s not looking at -_

“Ennoshita, I thought it was you!” the man bellowed, and clapped his hand on Chikara’s back.

Immediately Chikara’s demeanour changed. From being amused at Futakuchi, his expression slipping into relaxed sleepiness, he was immediately alert, and a spark of what looked like defensiveness breached his eyes.

“Adachi-san! How ... ah ... let me ... ah ...”

“No, no, don’t get up,” Adachi was saying. He smiled widely. “Don’t let me disturb you. It was only that I was going to get in touch, but this saves me a call.”

“A call?”

“Mmm, I’ve been doing some thinking since the meeting.” Adachi’s eyes flicked to the others, seemingly taking them in for the first time. “I apologise, but this won’t take a minute.”

Meeting ... Hell, was this Chikara’s producer? Was he about to fire him? No, he looked too amused, and only a sadist would genuinely be happy at firing an employee in such a public place.

_Maybe he is a sadist?_

“Want us to sit at the bar, while you talk?” Futakuchi asked, who to give him credit only looked slightly dejected.

“Want us to stay?” Keiji murmured to Chikara.

“Uh ...” Chikara blinked. “Adachi-san is the ... uh ... backer I was telling you about.”

_That’s a bit more positive._

Adachi smoothed a hand over his lapels, tucking his tie inside his suit. He clicked his tongue. “What you said this afternoon, Ennoshita, did ya mean it?”

“The script revisions? Yes, I meant that.”

“You wanted _more_ than revisions. It was like a whole rewrite.” He huffed out his cheeks and made a movement with his hand that put Keiji in mind of an old time movie mogul puffing on a cigar. “Think you can do it?”

“Me?”

“Your suggestion. And it ain’t looking like the writer gets your point at all.”

“I’m - ”

“Sure he can!” Futakuchi interrupted. “He has tons of ideas. Was only telling me them last night.” He flinched, suddenly, and from the tightening of Chikara’s lips, Keiji knew he’d kicked Futakuchi under the table.

A silence rent the air, Adachi looking from one to the other, a heaviness settling on his shoulders. “Was it all talk, Ennoshita?” he asked, sounding mild.

And Keiji took a breath, forcing the most deadpan expression onto his face, the one that had served him best when tearing down teams with his Ace. “No, it wasn’t,” he said, his voice soft but clear. “Ennoshita-san and I have been discussing the movie and I am here to offer my expertise.”

“And you are ...”

“Akaashi Keiji.”

“And you work in the industry.”

“I write, yes.”

“What you written? What shows?”

“Ah, not that sort of writing, Adachi-san. I’m what you might call a script doctor. So you won’t see my credits anywhere.”

_That part at least was true._

“And you think this guy’s right?”

“I agree that the lead actress needs a stronger part than being rescued by the hero,” Keiji continued, not daring to look over Adachi’s shoulder, because he was sure he was right ...

“And you guys can deliver a better script?”

His eyes flickering towards Keiji, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, Chikara inhaled, then released a breath. “We can.”

“Beginning of next week, then, and if I like it, then we’ll pay the going rate.”

Chikara started, his hand clenching.“That’s –”

“Fine,” Keiji concluded, pulling his mouth even straighter. “It was an honour to meet you, Adachi-san.”

“Same here. Now, I need to get back and –” He glanced over his shoulder, unaware all three of those seated were following the direction of his gaze and onto his female companion, who’d switched positions, sitting with her back to the room.

“I have a reprieve,” Chikara husked. “How did that happen?”

“It’s his dinner guest,” Keiji breathed. “You know I said she was attractive?”

“Mmm.”

“She was also vaguely familiar.”

“Who?” Futakuchi whispered. “I can’t see her from here? Is she famous?”

“She wants to be,” Keiji continued. “It’s Hamada Mari, Mari-chan to her fans. Chikara’s leading lady.”

“My QUEEN!” Futakuchi yelped, prevented from leaping in the air, only by Chikara’s sudden move to grab him.

“She clearly doesn’t want to be seen, that’s why she has her back to us,” Chikara hissed. “Please, Kenji, rein it in, just for me.”

“Can I get an introduction on set?” he bargained. Then his eyes gleamed. “Better still, how about I ditch playing and become an actor in your movie?”

“That’s about as likely as me returning to volleyball,” Chikara replied. “and making the starting line up.” He snorted, then turned back to Keiji, clutching his hand in full view of the restaurant (if they happened to be looking) and touching it to his lips. “That was a brilliant bluff. I might not get it done, but whoa, you’ve just bought me more time.”

He glimmered out a smile. “Who says I’m bluffing? When we’ve finished here, _we_ are going straight back to the flat and getting on with that rewrite.”

“You don’t have –”

Keiji gripped Chikara’s fingers, locking looks. “What was the one thing we had in common when we were Captains, Chika?”

And Chikara swallowed. “I wasn’t in your class.”

He flapped his free hand, dismissing the sudden hint at insecurity and intensified his grip. “Think about it.”

“I know this one!” Futakuchi put in. “It’s about Aces and managing them, isn’t it? Not my problem as I was the Ace, so ...”

Chikara smiled. “Knowing the importance of teamwork.”

“And we’re a team, right.”

“You guys are beautiful. My napkin’s soaking wet with my tears.”

“Shut up, Futakuchi!” they both snarled.

 

Back at the flat that they got to work, high on the possibilities. Futakuchi cracked open a beer, Keiji and Chikara sipped coffee, pulling apart two paper copies of the script, highlighting the parts they hated, the bits they wanted to change, and the lines they knew had to stay.

“Sorry we’re not more entertaining,” Chikara said, having thrown one sheet of paper towards the bin and hitting Futakuchi on the head.

“Nah, I’m fine,” he replied, waving the second book of the series at them. “Ronan is so cool, and I’m loving all this stuff about his dad.”

Chikara hesitated, then put the highlighter top back on the pen. “Talking of dads, when is Futakuchi-san arriving?”

“Hmm?”

“Your father,” Chikara probed. “Do you want me to find him a hotel?”

“Oh... _that.”_ He scratched his head. “Kinda meant to tell you, but .... Look, you know what my family’s like and I didn’t want to worry them, but ... uh ...”

“They don’t know.”

“Uh, well, not exactly.” He fidgeted in his chair, avoiding Chikara’s eyes. “I’ll get in touch tomorrow. But it’s ... um ... I could stay here, couldn’t I?”

“Not really,” Chikara explained, exasperated now. “Look, you kipping at ours for a few nights is fine, but post-op care isn’t possible. We do _have_ to go to work and that futon isn’t going to be suitable for you.”

“There is Shirofuku,” Keiji murmured. “She’s excellent and until you’re back with your team, she’ll look after you.”

“Good idea. Keiji, give her a call and see if she can pick him up, post-op, too. I’m going to be horribly busy. We both are, especially if they mend that boiler and you have to go back to work.”

Futakuchi snorted. “More like you won’t have to risk your boyfriend’s innocence by having him chaperone me.”

“Pardon?”

Chikara’s eyes widened, but not, Keiji thought, with alarm. There were no flushed looks, or guilty flickered glances across the room. His expression was one of incomprehension, not understanding at all what was going on.

“Aw, you’re acting coy now, Chika-chan, but I’ve told Akaashi all about our bus trip home and how embarrassing I was.” He winked then grinned at Keiji. “You know there was nothing in it, don’t you? Like, there never was and Chikara was much too upright to ever –”

“Yeah, nothing in it,” Chikara replied. Sitting on the arm of Keiji’s chair, he reached out to touch one of his curls, his eyes still on Futakuchi.

“Though maybe your boyfriend’s wondering why you never mentioned it,” came back the teasing reply.

“None of my business,” Keiji said, hoping he sounded nonchalant, even if he wasn’t actively warm.  His palms were sweating, but he didn’t look at Chikara, not wanting to see anything cross his face.

“And none of mine, either,” Chikara replied, and started to laugh. “Oh my fucking god, Futakuchi, what do you _think_ happened on that bus?”

“C’mon, don’t bullshit, Chikara. You must remember our big moment. It was the only time you got any action at college. Just a shame you weren’t my type.”

A snort erupted from Chikara’s nose, and the hand that had been tweaking Keiji’s curls, dropped to his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“You mean Moniwa-san wasn’t.”

“Huh?  Who?”

“Moniwa ... your old teammate and Captain.” Chikara kept his voice level, low, deadpan. “Your senpai.”

“What?” And Keiji wasn’t imaging the confusion and alarm in Futakuchi’s tone. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Kenji-kun, you were so whacked out on meds, that you had no idea what you were doing. Moniwa-san was with us.” He turned to Keiji. “Moniwa Kaname was at our college. He was the year above us, and .... uh ... he was the old Captain at Date Tech, so he knew about Kenji’s aversion to needles. When he found out his old kouhai was having another wisdom tooth out, he offered a hand.”

“He was on the bus.” Futakuchi had literally blanched.

“He was propping you up. I sat opposite.”

“You’re kidding me,” Futakuchi said again. But he cradled his face in his hands. “I don’t believe this. How did I ... I ... OH MY GOD I KISSED MY SENPAI!”

“Well ... ish.” Chikara smirked. “You kind of slumped into his face, and then some of the tooth padding fell out of your mouth. Moniwa-san, was cleaning you up and you drooled over his fingers. It was all very passionate.”

“And?”

“You said he had very soft fingers, then you apologised over and over for being a troublesome kouhai.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, you did.”

“So why ... why have you – or Moniwa-san – never mentioned this to me before?”

“I wanted to,” Chikara drawled. “Believe me I was tempted, but then, Moniwa is a decent guy and knew you’d be embarrassed, so he asked me to keep quiet.”

“But all these years, I thought it was you!”

Chikara snorted. “In your dreams.”

“But then again...” The colour started to come back to his cheeks. “That explains why you never wanted to go any further.”

“The arrogance of the boy!” Chikara said, rolling his eyes. “Have you noticed how Ace’s always think it’s about them?”

“So you didn’t ... ever ... do anything?” Keiji asked, trying to sound as if he wasn’t at all interested.

“He squirted me with water. I ignored him.”

“Or maybe I didn’t like the look of you in a wet tee shirt,” Futakuchi huffed.

“Entirely possible,” Chikara said, ultra calm. He yawned, then got to his feet. “I need more coffee, and I’ll work in the kitchen if you both want to crash.”

“Nope, I’m in for the long haul,” Keiji said, following him out of the room.  He filled up the kettle, watching as Chikara unscrewed the coffee jar, and fetched the milk. Rinsing the cups out, Keiji added one sugar to Chikara’s, then placed both on the counter.

“When did he tell you that story?” Chikara asked.

“Earlier today.”

“And you didn’t mention it.”

“Not my business, was it?”

“But you’ve been brooding on it, right?” Chikara guessed. “Going through every possible scenario.”

“Hey, you never wanted to hear about my love-life in the years we were apart, so I guessed you didn’t want to talk about yours.”

Chikara’s hands slipped round Keiji’s waist, and he snuggled his face into his back, breathing deeply, then letting the air whistle out. “There was no love-life. Maybe I should have said, but I felt ... dumb. I was at college, I was single, should have been the time of my life, right? But ...” he trailed off, sighing, but there was no need for him to say the words.

Keiji turned in his arms, then tilted Chikara’s chin up with his fingers, brushing his lips to his cheeks, dusting his mouth, then his chin, then his eyelids.

“I missed you, too,” he whispered. “I don’t regret going abroad, but I often wished you’d been there experiencing everything with me.”

“Were we idiots calling it off when we did?”

“I think, perhaps, we were too hung up on the problems and not on working out the solutions.” Keiji swallowed. “You were the one who initiated it, Chikara.”

“You agreed.”

“Yeah. We’re both idiots.”

“Maybe we should have been more truthful, but you kind of don’t think a relationship started at seventeen is supposed to last.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the tap glinted in the halogen light. No drops falling, the problem fixed.

“Talking of truth,” Keiji muttered. “Um, that tap. I tried to fix it and ... uh ... got into a real mess. I tried to find a plumber but –”

Chikara was grinning. “I know.”

“Huh? What the fuck, Futakuchi said he’d keep it secret!”

“I met the plumber when I came back that afternoon. He’d said he hadn’t been able to give a firm time but was here now. I said it was fine, that we’d sorted the problem.”

“And you said nothing.”

“Hey, I like saving face as much as the next person. And then when I got home, you’d both fixed it, so there wasn’t a problem. Having been on the end of Kenji’s handiwork before, I just made sure I bought washers the next day.”

Chikara’s hands were warm on Keiji’s back, and he wanted nothing more than to draw him closer, wedge them both against the counter and just forget their visitor and the busy night ahead, but ...

With reluctance, he began to pull away. “I should call Yukie,” he explained.

“Don’t worry. I called her already.” Chikara smirked. “I had a feeling he’d not called his family, and ... uh ... you’re not the only one who plans for every contingency.”

“Then, maybe we should get back to work?”

Chikara smiled lazily, then lifted his hands to cup Keiji’s face, staring into his eyes. “I think I need more research on the romance angle.”

“That so,” Keiji muttered, unable to keep a smile from his lips. “Which one of us is the hero?”

There was a ‘wow’ from the room next door, a sure sign Futakuchi was engrossed again in his book, and Chikara replied, a touch ruefully, “I don’t think either of us is the hero type, but who says the sidekicks can’t have fun?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this slice of domesticity. I never imagined a story about a dripping tap would spiral intgo nearly 20k, but that's what happens when I introduce Futakuchi.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this in December last year then got stuck. I kickstarted it because EnnoAkaa weekend was starting. I'm a bit late, but here's chapter 1.


End file.
